Maris is a patient man. It is impossible to be a man dedicated to scholarly pursuits and not be patient, in his experience. He sits beside the table where Subject Twenty-Four is lying, her wrists and ankles shackled to the table, no steps yet taken to see to the injuries suffered during the escape attempt. Fractures to the left forearm, so far as he can gauge it, perhaps not surprising given how weak she appears to be compared to the rest of the party.

Once there are signs of the Subject stirring, he begins to speak. His voice is very calm, almost— kind.

"My dear," he starts, not glancing up from his book, "take care not to move. The pain in your wrist is doubtless considerable, but we can see to that, soon enough."

Finally, he does look at her. His eyes are a very bright, warm copper-brown, and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. "How are you feeling?"